


Sheltered

by posingasme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Homeless Castiel, M/M, Soup Kitchens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-11 08:44:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5620633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/posingasme/pseuds/posingasme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is a kind volunteer at a homeless shelter and soup kitchen, which gets its fair share of drifters. Clarence is an extremely well-educated Russian-born man who needs help. Sam gets to work meeting the man's basic needs, and all the while, they each begin to suspect the other has quite a story to tell. For one thing, Sam becomes convinced that Clarence is not even his real name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Registration

They have enough volunteers on Christmas Day. That's when everyone thinks to go, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Those are times of plenty. But beyond that, the food banks and soup kitchens in every city suffer shortages, of supplies, of manpower, of morale. 

Sam volunteered year-round. His job was stressful, and it was his way of keeping things in perspective. It also let him tune out the noise of the world for a few hours. He dragged Dean when he was home on leave, and they both dressed in old jeans and tees, and did the literal heavy lifting all day. Then they would go home and watch the game, nursing sore muscles neither would ever admit to, with beer and the sense of accomplishment. 

More often, though, Sam was on his own. Dean was on his third deployment, and he had not made it back for the holidays. But they had talked over the video chat, and he had gotten to say Merry Christmas, and had listened to Dean and his buddies Benny and Cole try to sing Silent Night while drunk off-duty. Sam had enjoyed the rendition, especially the part about "round and round the table" when all three of them lost any semblance of lyrical logic or harmony. It let him pretend for a while that Dean was having a silent night somewhere, instead of just enjoying a few hours before having to return to the dangers inherent in his job. Sam didn't tell his brother, who would have scoffed, but he prayed every night for Dean's safety, and that of the guys he had grown to love like brothers, the ones Sam tried not to be jealous of. 

The food bank and shelter administrators loved seeing him pull up in the black Chevy. It seemed that every time he stopped by, they were relieved. 

"Thank goodness you're here. The computer just went down again!"

"Sam! You're here! Do you think you can grab these boxes to get them to the storage unit?"

"Oh, thank God. Sam's here. He'll know how to fix it."

The way everyone greeted him as if he were the hero of the day made him smile. He didn't get the same gratitude at work. Every time he did a little extra there, everyone acted as though it were expected. Here, the staff and other volunteers were always so thankful to see him. It was nice. 

Today was no exception. He had barely parked the Impala before Jenny Klein was rushing out to meet him. "Sam! I'm so glad to see you!"

He laughed, and closed the door behind him. "How can I help?"

"I have a guy here trying to register, and Marcus stepped out, and I don't know how to-"

He quickened his step. "Okay. No problem. I know how to do an intake."

"You know how to do everything," she sighed. "And you can reach the high shelves. I don't know why they even still act like they're happy to see me scheduled. I'm a poor placeholder till the Golden Boy arrives."

He slung an arm around her tiny frame. "You make incredible cupcakes," he reminded her. 

She perked up fractionally. "I do, don't I?"

"The best," he assured her. They entered the lobby area, which Sam and the staff tried to keep as pleasant as possible. He automatically let his eyes drift to the stacks of free legal assistance brochures, in English and Spanish, and those offering free career training courses. He replenished them as often as necessary. Sam was always on the lookout for professionals willing to do pro bono work for the homeless clientele. He had recently organized a Saturday morning in which several dentists and their hygienists came and gave free cleanings and examinations to anyone who showed up, and those who needed more work, cavities filled or root canals, Sam helped them fill out paperwork to get it paid for, and helped them set up appointments with the dentists who had given their time and resources. Sam liked to see things work out for both parties. 

Sam took a seat at the front desk, and logged into the computer. Then he looked up to see who it was he would be helping. 

The man was so filthy he was gray all over. Sam recognized it immediately as road dust. Lots of drifters came in that way around here. He was clutching at a book. His eyes were low. 

"Hello, sir. I'm glad you found us," he said softly. "I'd like to help you get registered so we can get you any services you might need."

"Vody," the man sighed. "Only need water. He tells me you will give me water."

Sam listened carefully. "Vy russkiy?"

Jenny sighed. 

The man brightened, and at last Sam could see his eyes. It made him draw in a sharp breath, the contrast between the man's gray face and those startlingly blue eyes, which wrinkled in a charming way as he smiled. "Da!" he laughed in delight. "A ty govorish' po russki?"

Sam lifted his hand quickly. "Whoa, wait. Are you Russian is literally the only phrase I know," he chuckled apologetically. 

Jenny whispered in his ear, "Then how do you know if he says yes or no?"

Sam's eyes closed briefly. "I have to guess, Jen," he sighed. Then he turned back to the man. "Translator?"

The man shook his head. "I understand," he said. "Slow, but I understand."

He nodded. "What's your name, friend?" he asked in a clear voice. 

"Clarence."

Sam typed without looking away from the curious blue gaze. "Clarence. Last name?"

"Strannik."

He typed it, then showed it to him to confirm the spelling. The man nodded. "Okay. Jenny, please get Mr. Strannik a few water bottles and one of the reg bags."

Jenny hurried away. 

"Doctor."

The voice was so soft that Sam wasn't certain he had heard it. "What?"

"Dr. Strannik. But does not matter."

Sam smiled at him kindly. "Of course it matters. What sort of doctor are you?"

"Physics."

His eyebrows shot up. "What branch?"

The eyes studied him for a moment, as if judging whether Sam would understand him. Then he shrugged. "Quantum electrodynamics."

The accent was quite thick, but there was no doubting what Sam had heard this time. He nodded, and gave a low whistle. "Wow. Okay." He knew better. But he badly wanted to ask how this man had ended up where he was. If he truly was what he said he was, and not delusional, he would be quite a fallen man. 

"Just water," he reminded Sam quietly. 

Sam looked around him, but couldn't see Jenny anywhere. The registration bags should have been easy enough to find, but that wasn't accounting for Jenny's limited attention span. He reached under the desk, and produced a bottle for the man. "Here. Jenny will be back right away."

The man took the bottle with a smile of gratitude, and in a blink, the water was drained. 

Sam smiled sympathetically. "Dr. Strannik, how long has it been since you ate anything?"

He shook his head. "No matter. No matter. Just water." He pulled a small cloth pouch from a pocket and held it up for Sam to see the contents. "Please, a place I can be clean."

He nodded. "Of course. Through this hall, there is a locker room with showers, and everything else you might need. May I offer you something to wear so your clothes can be cleaned for you?"

There was an ache in the man's eyes now. Pride fought against pride. What was the lesser of the indignities? Accepting help or continuing in this state? At last, he sighed and tried to smile. "Thank you. Yes. I am what he calls drifter. But never liked being..." He gestured ashamedly toward himself and his clothing. "...this," he finished in a hoarse voice. 

Sam reached out to offer his hand. It was something he had learned to do early on, to help the guests at the shelter understand that he respected them and their situations. 

Clarence looked down and gave a true smile, crinkling at the eyes through road dust. He tucked his book under an arm, then took Sam's hand in his, and clasped the other over it too. "Spasibo. It means thank you. Now you know two things in Russian."

Sam smiled at him, oddly pleased with the exchange. 

While the man was in the lockers, Sam located the registration bags, and then found Jenny looking through the kitchen for baking products. He left her alone to do what she did best. The girl was a bit of a cupcake savant. 

Registration bags contained things that most guests needed right away. They were a fantastic gift for a person who was unlikely to find himself with a permanent roof over his head that night. He knew how important they were, and that they were one of the few shelters that were able to continue to stock them regularly. It was a sturdy black backpack, which by itself was a boon to a homeless individual. What was inside varied by three categories: man, woman, and child. If in question, a person's gender was determined in part by the name they chose to give, and if the guest seemed to be thirteen or older, he or she received an adult pack. The child's pack had a storybook, a small blanket, a package of primary crayons, crackers, and a few other comfort items, as well as hand wipes and toiletries. 

The man's pack, which Sam grabbed for Clarence, contained many of the things he suspected the man needed badly. There were protein bars and packets of nuts and fruit. There was hand sanitizer, toothpaste, a toothbrush, a reusable water bottle, packets of instant coffee, a comb, shaving items, and a small bottle of lotion with sunscreen, shampoo, and lip balm. There was a wash cloth, a roll of toilet paper, a book of matches, two pens with a pad of paper, and a pack of playing cards. Finally, there was a folded map, with the county on one side and the state on the other. 

There were other items they were able to give out when they had them in stock. When they could get the donations, they included a small first aid kit in the bags. Sometimes, they were able to give tee shirts as well, after learning the guest's size. It all depended on what donations they had on hand. 

Sam remembered the book he had seen the man carrying. As he lay the registration bag out and looked for some donated new clothing in the man's apparent size, he wondered. What sort of book would a man like that clutch when his entire worldly possessions seemed to fit in his pockets? 

He made his way to the lockers and called in so as not to startle anyone. "Clarence! I'm setting your clothes next to your book on the bench, and I'm taking your others to clean. Anything else I can help with?" he called. 

Clarence was in the showers, and his voice expressed his relief at being hydrated, clean, warm and safe for the first time in who knew how long. "You do too much."

Sam smiled. "Take all the time you need, and come see me when you're finished. The black bag next to your clothes and book, that's yours to keep."

"Oh, no, no. I need only water!" the man insisted through the steam and white curtain. 

"It's too late, Clarence. I've already registered you. You wouldn't want me to not follow policy, would you?"

There was a pause. Then the voice floated back to him. "No. Is all right. Thank you. Spasibo. You do too much."

"I'll be outside."

Sam liked his volunteer work very much. Other volunteers simply registered the drifters and pointed to the soup kitchen where they could get a meal. But Sam liked to take a personal interest in every intake he helped with. He always found the administrators and staff and other volunteers to be grateful for everything he did, and the guests were always thankful too. He felt like he was important here, as if he did something that mattered. 

If Dr. Clarence Strannik found it easier to sleep tonight, Sam would find it easier to sleep tonight. It was as simple as that.


	2. Weekdays

There was a tapping sound on the desk. It sounded irritated. 

Sam stared out the window gloomily. 

"I'm boring you, I suppose?"

The rhythm ceased, and he turned quickly to face the woman in the expensive suit. "No!" he responded. "I'm so sorry. No. I'm listening."

Renee Van Allen raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Winchester, I have a book club meeting to get to, and I don't intend to be late. Now can we try to focus like professionals?"

Sam hated this witch. "Of course. Go on."

She cleared her throat pointedly. She continued in her impossibly conceited way to review the base numbers for the week, which he had on paper right in front of him, as if he were an idiot. Every time his fingers began drumming on the desk again, he received a wilting glower and that horrible, manicured eyebrow again. 

By the time she had finished, Sam had a piercing headache behind his eyes, and no more information than was on his paperwork. 

"You'll need to come in early on Monday, Mr. Winchester, and likely Tuesday as well. I won't be in till nine, of course, but you've got a key." She was putting her coat on as she spoke. "Don't lower the thermostat before I come in, and be so kind as to start the coffee."

He sighed. 

When Mrs. Van Allen had left for the day, Sam went back to his work in a bit more peace. It did not last long. 

Alice was grinning at him before he even realized she was in the office. He startled badly, but she did not seem to notice. Alice didn't notice much of anything lately. Alice was in love. "Sam, I'm in love."

He gave her a weary smile. "Yes, I know."

She giggled as she shoved her gloved hands into her coat pockets. "Russell is taking me out for Valentines!"

"That's five weeks away, Alice."

"Yeah, but it falls on a Friday, so I'm just letting you know I won't be here that day. I'm getting ready the whole day. I have to be perfect for him."

Sam tried to continue smiling. "And I guess Russ will also take the day."

"Probably. I'll give you our reports on Thursday so you can finish them for us." She winked. "I am so hungry for that man!"

His stomach was churning. "Yeah. I can tell."

She giggled again, and waved on her way out. 

He put his forehead into his palm. 

The intern, Ms. Carlton, knocked on the door then, and he did his best to seem pleasant. "Hey, Sophie. What's up?"

"Sam, I'm headed for a swim. You want to join me?"

A real smile, albeit a sad one, came over him. "No, Soph. I've got too many things to wrap up here. You enjoy yourself."

"Okay." She shrugged and gripped her gym bag on her shoulder. "Not much fun working somewhere that provides a full gym, weight room and pool, if you never get to use it."

Sam winced. "Yeah. I thought I would sometimes."

"Why do you even keep a locker?" she asked rhetorically. "You're never going to have a chance to use it." With that, she wandered out of the office toward the stairs. 

Hazel eyes closed briefly. 

When the phone rang, he already knew who it would be. It was Friday night, after all. "This is Sam," he sighed. 

"Sam, my boy!" The accent came over the line in that wickedly cheerful way that Patrick had that suggested he was about to work his charm. "Fancy a game?"

"Wish I could, buddy. Nothing I enjoy more than going broke playing poker with you. But I gotta-"

"You gotta work. Yeah. Sam, my boy, you're going to grow old twice as fast as the rest of us if you don't rest now and then. Come on. Just a few quick hands."

"Find another victim, Patrick."

"You're my best opponent, Sam. The rest of them are too easy!"

Sam gave a tired laugh. "Tell you what I'll do. I'll give you the number of a guy who can kick your ass on a good day. He's not so far away. He might join in if you call him right away. Name's Bobby Singer, and he'll wipe the table with you." Sam relayed the contact information for Singer's Auto, and hung up before Patrick worked his magic and got him to agree to come over later. 

By the time his phone registered a text message just after nine, his head was pounding and the numbers were blurs. He closed his laptop and sighed. He knew what this was too. 

"Sam, go home. Don't make me come get you."

He smiled weakly and typed back. "You don't have a key anymore, Paul. They wouldn't let you in."

"Like I can't talk myself past a few security guards."

Sam laughed at this. 

"Sam, get out of that office. Seriously. I nag because I care."

He closed his eyes to block out the words, and found himself speaking aloud to the empty room. "Didn't care quite enough, though, did you, Paulie?" He shook his head and tapped his response. "You miss it?"

The answer was immediate. The phone rang, and Sam simply put it on speaker. "Miss what? You working yourself to death? Or clocking hours as security myself? Because the job got tougher after the CEO found out I was sleeping with one of the mid-level managers."

Sam flinched. "Maybe you shouldn't have slept with the manager." 

"Yeah," he sighed. "Maybe if that manager's boss ever came home on a Friday night, I wouldn't have."

A flood of hurt washed through him. "Paul-"

"Nope. Not doing this again. We've had the conversation a hundred times."

"You brought it up. You texted me." Sam stared out the window at the dark street below. "I would have left everything for you."

"You said that. But I couldn't even get you to dinner on a Friday night, Sam."

His chest was tight. "I would have. I told you. If you had given me any indication I had a chance, I would have left the company behind."

"It's your company, Sam. Your baby. You built her. But you still act like everyone around you is your boss. Van Allen still telling you not to lower your temperature in your own office?"

It was miserable the way Paul knew every detail. "It doesn't matter. I wear too many layers anyway."

"I know. I remember trying to get you out of them."

He laughed, and the movement sent a tear sliding down his nose. "Yeah."

"Sam, you're a brilliant man, okay? And you got a raw deal when you and Tyson Brady started this company, and then he went and checked out on you."

He swallowed hard as yet another painful betrayal overwhelmed his heart. "Yeah. Well, he was supposed to be the boss. I was supposed to run the company, and he was meant to be the one who..."

"Talked to people?"

"Yeah," he whispered again, and the headache was becoming far worse now that he was fighting against tears. "And then..."

"And then he was snorting so much cocaine that he couldn't get through a meeting. And every time he let you down? You just took on more of the load yourself, made excuses for him. You paid for his rehab that he never committed to. And then what did he do, Sam?"

"He told the review board I was the one skimming."

"He told the review board you were the one skimming," Paul confirmed. "Threw you under the bus after all you did for him. And now you're doing the same thing as always. You're letting everyone take advantage of you. You hired that private security company to guard your company, Sam, but you do nothing to protect yourself."

"I left you," he reminded him hoarsely. 

"No you didn't."

No. He hadn't. Sam had begged the man to tell him why he had gone to someone else, why he wasn't good enough. He had offered to leave the company behind if it was what Paul needed. He would have given anything for Paul to have demanded that sacrifice from him. But he hadn't. And only then had Sam walked away. 

"Sam, you even know how much money you have? You could do anything. Why not step down?"

A spark of anger flared inside him. "What do you care, Paul? You lost the chance to make decisions with me when you screwed one of my sales managers!" The shout echoed in the empty office. 

The line was silent for a moment, and Sam tried to convince himself to hang up. But then Paul responded. "Sam, you're real good at what you do. But you aren't happy. And you let people walk all over you. I worked there seven months before I realized you were the boss. I figured you were one of the lawyers, or maybe an accountant. I had no idea you were the founder. No one treats you like it, because you don't act like it. Why does Van Allen even still work there? You hate that witch!"

"I love my work."

"You hate your life." 

The flinch was sharp, and it took his breath, forcing him to gasp in a sob. "I'm doing what I always said I would. I'm running my company. I worked damn hard to get to this point."

"You did such a great job, babe. But now you've got more money than you know what to do with, and you've got nothing else. You're sitting in your office, night after night, wasting your life, giving up everything and everyone who could be good for you, and for what? Hire the right people to replace you and go do something for yourself!"

"Like what, Paul? You were it! That was my chance. And I wasn't good enough, and now I've lost the only thing that could have been worth changing my life for."

Paul heaved a sigh. "Sam, listen. You and me...When your company used a contractor for security, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. But we never had a chance, because you were too afraid."

Sam shook his head. "I think it had something to do with you fucking the slut on the sales floor."

"He wasn't on the sales floor at the time."

He found himself laughing a little. 

Paul was smirking. It was in his voice. "You asked if I miss it. I miss you, Sam. But I don't miss fighting against the way you see yourself. It's a losing battle. I got my own business to run now. I thought I'd understand you better when I was the boss. But I guess owning a bar isn't like what you do. Because I don't let the world walk on me, and I still find time for doing things that make me happy. What makes you happy, Sam? I'm betting it isn't where you are right now."

So an hour later, Sam was dressed in ratty jeans, one of Dean's old band tees, and a black hoodie, and he was exactly where he wanted to be, where he was happy. 

"Sam! I'm so glad you're here! Guys, it's okay! Sam's here! He'll know how to fix it!"

The man smiled to himself, and realized his headache had dissipated completely.


	3. Move On

Castiel Derzkiy glanced at himself in the mirror. He had to move on soon. They would catch up to him soon enough. That was one thing he could always count on. They had found Anya. They would find him. 

It hurt to be awake. He never would have guessed how painful sleep deprivation could be. His entire body ached terribly. Two nights ago, he had found a broken old bus where he could rest, and he had even indulged in some time spent making calculations on the windows. It seemed part of his brain would never accept that this was his life now, that experiments and equations had been forgone in favor of survival. 

He needed to move on. So he forced himself to return to the shelter he had found the first day in town. They had been kind there. They would give him water to take with him as he sought a new hiding space. And he knew he could not afford to be too proud to accept an offer of a warm meal. It had been a week since he had eaten anything substantial. 

Cracked lips smiled tightly as he remembered the man who had arranged for his clothing to be cleaned for him. It was a nice memory. Sam, he had said. A striking man, with kind, intelligent eyes. A strong man who did not look down on others. They were rare in Castiel's world. 

Not Castiel, he reminded himself. Clarence Strannik. 

He sighed. He would need a new moniker soon too. He had four that he shuffled at random, but those who sought him would catch on soon enough to those. Perhaps...He considered. "Emmanuel," he murmured as he walked toward the shelter. And he could take the surname of the man who used to clean his office and lab, the nice man who smiled at him each night. "Emmanuel Allen. That is who I will be in the next town." It was a good name. He could recycle it as Allen Emmanuel, and Allen Strannik and Emmanuel Strannik as well. A good name. 

Whoever he was, he had to polish his accent. It was too conspicuous. Anyone questioned about having seen a man with a thick Russian accent was sure to remember him. That Sam had picked it out with just a word had been both nice and terrifying. It had reminded him to redouble his efforts to improve his grammar and smooth out his speech. Americans were quite poor at determining what type of accent they heard, so long as it was slight. He had spent his days this week in the parks, listening to lonely old men talk about their lives, and had studied their speech patterns. 

Besides, he was quite a lonely old man himself. 

He was only forty. But with the way he had been running lately, with the enormity of what he had given up, he felt far older. 

He licked at his lips, and could taste salt and blood, as well as grit. He felt for his precious book inside the backpack he had been given, and he entered through the shelter doors at last. 

A peal of laughter hit him as he slipped in without a sound. Castiel sighed to himself. It was good to see the handsome, familiar face, with the bright eyes again before he left this place. There were so few joys in his life anymore. Watching Sam grin at the night staff as they laughed at something he had said or done was as good as it could get. He did have a nice smile.


	4. In a Man's Life

The blue eyes were back, and Sam could not help his smile.

But Marcus spoke first. "Hey, man. We're closing the doors for the night. You just made it. What's your name, buddy?"

The man looked at Sam, and hesitated a moment. "Strannik," he murmured. "Clarence Strannik. I take water before. Days ago. I ask again for clean water. Yes?"

Sam nodded. "Of course. I remember you, Clarence. Spasibo."

A shy smile of delight came over the man's face. "You remember," he said quietly.

"I do."

Marcus cleared his throat. "Okay. Then, Sam, you want to help him out while I close up?"

"Yeah. I can do that."

Marcus and the other staff member headed out of the lobby to complete their rounds for the night.

Sam turned back to Clarence. He held out a water bottle. "How have you been this week, Dr. Strannik?"

The man drained half the water, then closed his eyes with his relief. "Cold," he sighed. "And..." He lowered his blue gaze. "And hungry." It was barely even a whisper, and it was as though the man found it painful to say.

Sam cringed. "Dr. Strannik, they've closed the kitchen for tonight. I can offer you a space to clean up, some snacks, a cot, but..."

Clarence waved this away. "No. I clean and go. Water is all I need."

It seemed as though he were finding it easier to understand Clarence's accent, but that was a bit ridiculous. It had only been a week since he had heard him speak.

He forced a smile. "Yes?"

Sam nodded. "Do you remember where to find the showers?"

There came an answering nod, and the man slipped away quietly.

He sighed after him. He wished Clarence would stay the night and have a breakfast in the morning. The shelter offered two meals a day, as well as coffee and water. There were usually donations of packs of crackers or granola bars they could give out. But these guests needed a hot, nutrient-rich meal more than anything. Whenever Sam saw the coffers getting low, he made an anonymous donation, and the staff could purchase what they needed. They did not know that Sam was their benefactor, and he liked it that way.

He wished he could offer something to Dr. Strannik.

When the man reemerged from the lockers, he smiled at Sam. "Spasibo," he said. "Better. I go now."

Sam caught his breath suddenly. "Wait! Dr. Strannik, wait." He hurried out from the desk and stood between the man and the door. "You're sure you won't stay tonight?"

He shook his head. "No. Is not needed."

The younger man nodded. "Okay. Then...I'm leaving for the night. I just came to...but they don't need me at night. What I'm saying...Would you let me take you for a hot dinner? I haven't eaten tonight, and...it would really..." He took a deep breath and willed his words to come out in the right order. "I would really like some company."

Clarence watched him through narrowed eyes for a moment. "You...you want dinner. With me."

He could feel the blush sweeping his cheeks and burning his ears. "Yeah. I mean...I'm going to get something. I'm alone, and...I can't believe you don't have some stories to tell. Or-or we don't have to talk if you don't want to. I just thought..."

It was hard to be under that gaze for too long. But the small smile helped. "I may like to be...company."

Relief washed over Sam. "Great! What, uh...what do you like? We can get anything. I mean, anything that's still open. Most would be closed now, I guess. But..."

Clarence put a hand on his arm. "We are American, yes? Friday night is for pizza."

The grin exploded across Sam's face now, and a laugh of surprise huffed from it. "Yeah! That's...that's perfect. I know a place still open this late. Come on."

Twenty minutes later, they were seated inside a warm restaurant, and the waiter was scribbling their order on his pad. He repeated it back to them, and shuffled away with a yawn. He returned with a glass of water and a beer for each of them. Clarence bit into the bread left for them with as much restraint as he could manage.

Only then did they really attempt conversation.

Sam cleared his throat. "Clarence, where did you attend school for physics?"

Bright eyes looked up from the beer mug. "Back in Russia, I study physics. I go to Germany too. And London. But I teach in America."

Sam listened for the tenses. "You taught here. At a university?"

He nodded. Then he frowned and shook his head. "No. I apologize. No, I teach in Russia. I work here at university. Is good program. I teach students only in Russia. He calls me professor here, but I have no students."

"You're a research professor," Sam said then.

"Yes. That."

Sam laughed quietly. He sipped at his beer and sat back. "So how long have you been here? In the country, I mean."

Clarence smirked sourly. "You mean, how long I have been this." He gestured to himself in disgust. "Too long."

His eyes softened in sympathy. "I'm sorry. I guess you'd rather talk about something else."

He shrugged. "Anything else," he murmured. Then he looked up. "Sam, you find my accent better, yes? I study."

"I didn't think there was a problem with the way you speak."

Those incredible blue eyes lifted to meet his. "You are kind."

"No. There's nothing wrong with an accent. You don't have to change the way you speak to make things easier for other people. So long as you're not being misunderstood."

The smile was brilliant and sudden, and Sam felt warm in its wake. "Most will not agree."

Sam shrugged, but he found himself too affected by the man's smile even to respond.

Clarence shook his head and broke another piece of bread. "No problem. No problem for me. I learn better. I speak better. I..." He frowned and thought, then began again. "I do not get too much attention."

He watched him curiously. "You think your accent gets you too much attention?"

Clarence nodded, eyes fixed on the bread in his hands. "Dirty is bad enough," he scowled.

Sam wasn't sure what to say about that, so he said nothing.

His companion took a breath, and smiled again. "You do not work at shelter."

"Uh, no. I'm a volunteer."

He nodded. "Why?"

Sam sipped at the beer and licked his lips. "I don't know. I like helping people."

"You belong with helping people," whispered the man across from him.

A strange warmth filled him, and he felt a twinge of pride tighten his chest. "You think so? It isn't what I do. But it's what I enjoy."

"Tell me the story of Sam. Please."

He laughed awkwardly and sat up straight. "You don't want that. It's pretty boring."

But the gaze was steady. "I want," Clarence insisted in a soft, deep voice.

Their pizza arrived at the table then, and Sam thought Clarence might forget. But after a few bites, which brought pure pleasure to his handsome face, he spoke again. "Is good. Is very good. Now, story of Sam."

His blush was out of control now. Sam dropped his head to let his hair hide his face. "Not much to tell. I'm, uh, a techie."

"Please. Explain."

"I work with computers. I mean, my job is working with computers. I went to school for pre-law, and while I was there, I did this project...It doesn't matter. A buddy of mine and I started a little company, helping corporations and government agencies integrate tech in a way that made collaboration easier. It's not a big deal. But it's kept me busy. And-and it helps people...It's a way of communicating needs and information among those who have similar missions, like hospitals and universities. The government in particular isn't very good about collaborating among its agencies. School districts try, but they don't have the tools they need. So with my programs, they can easily share resources and information with other school districts. I have to keep up with privacy laws and legislation about use of property and..." He shrugged. "Anyway, it's not a big deal. My buddy's the one who does the explaining." Sam flinched. "Or...he was. He left the company."

"Is hard for you."

Sam looked up. "Oh! No, it just...I'm good at certain things. Talking..." He laughed sheepishly. "Talking clearly isn't one of them."

Clarence nodded. "And why on Friday you are volunteer? Why you are having pizza with me, not family?"

This question was far easier. "Because I don't have family. I mean...I have a brother. In the military, overseas. But no one here."

"No wife, no friend?"

He sighed out a laugh. "No. I'm alone. But-but that's good. It means I've got more time to help. I work a lot during the week, but on weekends, I like to be at the shelter."

"Is a good shelter. But, Sam, why you are alone?"

It should have made him feel better that Clarence found it so hard to believe that Sam had no one. Instead, it made him feel worse. "I work seventy hours a week at the office, and another twenty at home when I should be sleeping. I volunteer at least four to eight hours a week, more if I can. Sometimes, like tonight, I just show up to see if they need help. I'm a workaholic mess. That's what everyone says. And the last...person I dated told me I'm physically and emotionally unavailable. So...there's that."

"A man."

"What?"

"Your person. Is a man?"

He lowered his eyes. "Look, if that makes you uncomfortable, I apologize-"

Clarence frowned. "No you don't!" he snapped. "You tell me, I don't practice English for another to make it easier. You don't hide for another to make it comfortable. Same!"

Sam stared at him. "It-it isn't the same."

"Because I am Russian, I cannot be comfortable with you? Because is known Russian official is not friendly to men together?"

He laughed a bit, and combed his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't assume me being gay would be a problem for you."

"Is not problem. For me or for you."

He smiled softly. "Clarence, are you? Gay?"

The older man waved this away. "I am nothing. He calls me drifter. Is all I am."

"Is it?" Sam's eyes narrowed. "That's why you go by a false name?"

The man's eyes widened. "No!"

Sam put his hands up. "Okay. Okay, I'm sorry. That's none of my business." He took another bite thoughtfully, then heard himself pushing the issue. "It's just that you're clearly very smart, you've got an impressive education and background, you're worried that your accent gets you too much attention, you hesitate when you're asked your name, you refuse to stay at the shelter overnight, you-"

"Etogo dostatochno!"

Sam clamped his mouth down immediately.

"Never met such a man!" Clarence complained.

His face burned. But he met the man's eyes. "I'm not wrong," he muttered.

And suddenly the man was smiling again. He allowed a small laugh to huff out, and it gave Sam permission to breathe again. "No," he confirmed. "You are not wrong. Not Clarence. Not Strannik. But is best you do not know real name."

Sam took a breath to get his nerves up. "Did you hurt someone?" he asked quietly.

Blue eyes widened in amusement. "I am murder? Physics murder. Kill with photons over abelian gauge theory, yes?"

The younger man burst into laughter.

Clarence chuckled. "No, Sam," he sighed. "I hurt no one."

"Then what? Why aren't you in a lab somewhere?"

The man's face suddenly seemed far older, his eyes far wearier. "Sam, in life of a man, it must be decision made. Do as told. Do as know is right. Do as told, a man has money, power. Do as know is right, a man has honor. Honor...It is worth to lose everything else." His haunted look dissipated then, and he sighed. "Also it leave a man hungry," he admitted.

Sam nodded. His own food had been forgotten. He leaned forward very slightly to catch every word the man said. "I would love to hear more."

Clarence looked up and watched carefully for a time. Then he nodded. "Da. Not here. Here, you tell me story of Sam, and I listen and practice English. Maybe then we are to walk, and I tell you story of..." He took a breath and his voice lowered even more. "Story of Castiel."

It was impossible to dampen the grin on Sam's face. "Then eat what you can, and I'll try not to bore you with my normality."

Castiel, for now he knew the man's true moniker, gave a laugh and indulged in the pizza that seemed to make him so happy.


	5. Friend

Castiel did not like Paul. 

Just his name made his eyes narrow by the end of the story. 

Sam shrugged. "So. You wanted to know why I'm alone. I'm alone because I'm not worth the effort. I'm a, uh...an emotionally underdeveloped workaholic."

"But sobaka on floor three is developed, yes?"

Sam seemed amused by his annoyance. "Do I want to know what you called my sales manager?"

"Still he is to work with you?" he hissed in disbelief. 

The young man shrugged again, and rubbed at his neck. "I can't fire a guy because he slept with my boyfriend. I'm just lucky Paul got his business going, so I don't have to see them both every day."

Castiel threw his hands up. "Why you cannot make him leave?"

He laughed quietly, but his eyes remained sad. "Cas, there are laws against that. It's already a bit sketchy with me having a relationship with the employee of a contractor. That's why I offered to leave the company for him. I would have if...if I thought there was any chance. But I knew there wasn't. So I couldn't burn my bridges. And now that he's gone, what would be the point in firing a good salesperson? And what would I say? You're terminated because my boyfriend liked you better? That's not his fault. That's my fault!"

Castiel was shaking his head. The man was making him angry. "You are thirty. Yes?"

"Sure. I mean, yeah. I'll be thirty-two in May."

"You are young, Sam. You think fault..." He was unsure if that was the correct term. It was also the word associated with the fracture of rock formation caused by plate-tectonic forces. But he supposed it could be the same. "Fault is not from you. Fault is from Paul. Paul is try to make fault of you." He frowned in frustration. Having a full belly was a wonderful thing, but it did little to counter the sleep deprivation. Castiel closed his eyes, and began again with determined concentration. "Paul tells you is your fault. You are young; you believe. But Paul..." What was the word? Chert, one day he was going to learn this ridiculous language. "Paul is want to be free of fault. He is not. What is word to say a man joins side of enemy?"

Sam snorted moodily. He was breaking pieces of bread crust into smaller pieces. "Betrayal?" he supplied. 

Castiel snapped his fingers, startling his companion. "Paul is betrayal to you."

The man sighed heavily. "Maybe. But, Cas, you don't understand. He cares about me. Even now, he calls to see how I'm doing. He called just today."

"He calls to see you are not happy."

Hazel eyes widened. The innocence there made Castiel want to kiss the poor boy and send him to bed. "No! He calls to...I mean, just today, he was telling me I should do what makes me happy!"

"Yes. And he is certain again that you are not, so he is to be satisfy."

"No..." Sam's protest was weak. "No, I...Cas, Paul was right. He's always right. He's the closest thing I've got to a friend. My brother is so far away, and...Paul might be seeing other people, but he deserves that. He should have that. If I...If I can't make him happy, he should find someone else who could. I want him to be happy."

Castiel shook his head. "Friend is not betrayal to you. Friend is talk to you when problems come. Friend is not sooka."

Sam was frowning down at his hands. "Pretty sure I don't want that translated either."

"Sam, listen to Cas. At time, Paul calls again, yes? You tell to him, I am happy. I am to find...I am finding friend. I am finding lover. Yes?"

"Cas-"

"No, you listen. Tell to Paul, you are happy for me, Paul? Tell to him that. Listen. And you tell Cas if Paul is happy for you, da? Paul, I am finding lover. You are happy for me, Paul? What he will say?"

The younger man was thinking over the puzzle with a frantic look in his eyes. Castiel hoped he had communicated his meaning properly. 

"Sam?"

Sam licked his lips, and Castiel found his gaze drawn down to the man's mouth. 

He cleared his throat. "Friend is not betrayal to you," he said again. "Friend is talk to you when problems come."

Suddenly, there were sparkles of tears in the young man's eyes. "That's all I wanted, you know? If he was unhappy, he...he should have told me. I could have fixed it, or at least gotten out of the way. The fact that he slept with that man, at least twice, and then again with me before I knew..." The voice was becoming hoarse. "It makes me so sick."

Castiel nodded, and before he realized what he was doing, his hand was atop Sam's. "The fault is not from you, Sam. Is from no respect. Paul is not respecting to you."

Sam sniffed, and a tear slid down his cheek, but he smiled. "Respectful," he said quietly. 

"What?"

"Paul...was not respectful. That's the way it is said."

Castiel sat back and beamed at him. "Yes," he said with satisfaction. "I learn better."

The younger man laughed tearfully, and waved the waiter over for the check.


	6. To Help

"It's your turn."

Castiel shook his head at him. "Sam, you are kind, generous man. You need no trouble. I leave in morning. Thank you for pizza. It is..." He laughed brightly. "It is long time since I was happy as now. You remember what Cas tell to you. Sam is good man."

He frowned as they stepped out of the restaurant into a frigid drizzle. "But you...you said you'd tell me your story!"

"I tell you my name. Is Castiel. Is more I ever tell to anyone."

"But..." Suddenly, Sam desperately did not want to be alone. He badly needed company, and he knew this man must be lonely too. Sam had just bared his heartache to him. He could not simply walk out of his life right this minute. "But...It's raining, Cas. Where will you go?"

"I am fine. Better, because of dear Sam. Spasibo, my friend."

He sighed. "Yeah. Spasibo, Cas. Tell me you'll take care of yourself. Keep yourself safe."

Castiel's eyes narrowed a bit. "This may not be possible, Sam." Then he saw the way Sam winced. "Oh. I am to lie. Ah...Yes. Certain. I am to be fine."

Sam laughed at last. "You're a terrible liar."

The older man scowled. "Not true. I tell you before my name is Clarence, and you believe. I am good liar."

This man was so endearing, so intriguing. He just couldn't let him walk away now. Sam took a deep breath and rushed forward. "Castiel, this is ridiculous. You need a place to stay the night. The shelter is closed, and I don't even want to think about where else you might land till morning. It's freezing. I've got a room my brother stays in while he's back in the States and has leave from the base. Please. Just for the night. So I know you're safe."

Castiel looked out along the road, the icy rain pouring down over him. He tightened his grip on his backpack strap.

Sam's eyes brightened as he remembered. "Your book will get wet," he said.

The drifter frowned at that. He closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. "One night," he sighed. "One night."

The capitulation brought a grin to Sam's face. "Come on then. My car is just a block down. Let's hurry."

The ride to his home was quiet, and he could feel how exhausted the man was. Truth be told, Sam was quite tired himself. He was unused to so much conversation. He had to talk to people all the time now, but it wasn't really conversation. Dean hadn't even let him tell the full story of what had happened with Paul. He had learned of the infidelity, had flown off the handle, and had heard nothing else. He had told Sam that if he ever saw Paul again, he would rip his lungs out. Sam loved his brother, and appreciated his faithful support, but what he had truly needed was someone to talk it out with, someone who would acknowledge his grief for what could have been.

What Castiel had done was just what Sam had needed. He had listened. He had recognized Sam's hurt. And he had assured Sam that he was justified in feeling betrayed. Sam hoped Castiel was wrong about Paul calling just to be sure Sam was still miserable without him. But for the first time, he could consider...

"Cas?" he murmured as he pulled into his space in the garage and turned the ignition. He stared at the Impala's steering wheel.

His new friend looked at him patiently.

"Cas, when Paul...When I realized I wasn't good enough for Paul...When I wasn't a good enough friend to Brady to keep him from...And even my brother seems to have found new brothers...I want them all to be happy, you know? I want that for them. But..." He swallowed hard and shrugged, sending a sad smile to his passenger. "It hurts," he whispered. "I feel like..." He blinked against tears and looked back at his own hands. "It just hurts. So thank you. For talking with me."

When he worked up the courage to look back at the man, he was treated to a beautiful smile. "Sam, how long you have been alone?"

He was trembling a little, and it shocked him. He was shy occasionally, and awkward, no doubt, but he wasn't often timid. Something about this man smiling at him turned his heart upside down. "A long time. Too long."

"How long you have been lonely?"

He took in a jagged breath. "All my life," he whispered.

"You are to help people. You belong with that. But you need help also. Let me help you, Sam. I must sleep. I am sick with it. But at time, I want to help you. You will let me do this?"

"I don't know what you mean."

Castiel smiled at him knowingly. He leaned forward and kissed Sam's lips so gently, it could have been the brush of a feather, except that it took Sam's lower lip captive and made him whimper. The man smiled kindly. "You know," he responded at last, and he let himself out of Sam's car.

It took a moment before Sam could breathe again, and then he was breathing too shallowly. He shivered once, in the quiet of the car, and gulped in air to calm himself. His hands fumbled the handle of the door to the car he had practically grown up in. He stumbled getting out.

Castiel was kind enough not to notice.

***

Sam had given him towels and a change of clothing with renewed shyness. It was delicious. Castiel found himself nearly giddy with how reckless he was being. Insouciant, the way he was giving in and telling Sam his name, accepting a meal from him, going home with him, kissing him...If Sam were a bounty hunter, Castiel would be entirely at his mercy. But somehow, it didn't feel wrong to let down his guard with this sweet giant. If Sam were a reaper come to claim him, he'd have done it by now. They would catch up to him soon enough, just as they had with Anya. But it would not be tonight.

And bless him, he had to let someone in, just this once. He would not put Sam in danger by telling him his last name or more of his story. And he would run again soon. But for tonight, he just needed to pretend this was real, that it was something he could have.

He shouldn't have been so surprised by the home. It was a city loft, after all. But stepping inside made it clear that Sam had money he had neglected to mention. Not that it was gaudy or trendy inside. But in addition to it being in the high rent district, Sam had a gorgeously furnished home. It was a lovely mixture of modern and classic. It was spartan and clean, but also comfortable. Sam neither flaunted his wealth nor hid it.

It was welcoming, and yet Castiel could tell at a glance no one but perhaps a housekeeper had been there in months. It was heartbreaking to know that a man like Sam could be so alone in the world. While Castiel fought so hard to be invisible, Sam desperately wanted to be noticed, and yet Castiel basked in the attention of a new friend when he shouldn't, and Sam shied from admiration he deserved.

Castiel showered again, lazing in the clean, warm water and soap greedily, and then stepped out to examine the toiletries Sam had given him. He was thankful for the chance to use a good new razor. He took his time shaving well, and he trimmed his wayward hair now that he had a proper mirror, trash can and scissors to do so. He brushed his teeth and washed his face again.

It was so good to be clean.

He dressed in the tee shirt and jogging pants he was given, and climbed into the bed. Immediately, his aching muscles sang in relief. What a bed! This brother of Sam's had the most incredible bed Castiel had ever slept upon.

He could hear the drizzling continue outside, and he knew how miserable he could have been just then. Instead, he curled into a soft, warm comforter and relished the sensation, and promptly fell hard asleep.


	7. Alone But Not Lonely

Sam slept restlessly for about an hour, but he could not keep his eyes closed any longer. His skin itched, his nerves tangled, his stomach knotted. And he was fixating on the smallest, most ridiculous detail, something a fourteen year old might have obsessed about, not a thirty-two year old man. It was embarrassing even inside the privacy of his own head. But he couldn't help it. 

Castiel was not wearing anything under Sam's clothes. 

It was such a simple thing, but it filled Sam's mind. He knew it was true, because Castiel had begun a small load of laundry, washing everything he owned, even the backpack itself. 

Sam had seen him in the tee and pants he had given him, and had nearly lost any semblance of coherent thought. Somehow, the man was exponentially more attractive in threads Sam had frequently worn himself. The pants were too long, and too large about the waist too, which was adorable, and the view of the man's back and arms in his tee shirt was the stuff Sam's dreams would be made of for the rest of his life. He had never realized how sexy it could be to have a handsome, strong man in his clothes. 

He lay awake, blinking slowly, thinking of the man across the hall shifting in the sheets, perhaps turning to lie on his stomach, Sam's shirt hitching up and his pants rubbing against him softly...That was all it took before Sam's large hand was touching himself. He tried to think of something else, someone else, anyone else, but it was a lost cause. 

He wanted that man. 

His mind raced in two separate directions. Part of him questioned the ethics here. Was he taking advantage of this man, who clearly had nothing and no one? He found it impossible to think of Castiel as helpless. The man was strong and wildly smart-for gods sake, he was a research physicist. And he was worldly in a way that Sam could only imagine. 

The other part of his brain was off on a beautiful tangent. His chest tightened, and he curled up into his own fist as he thought of the shower Castiel had taken before the sliver of light underneath the guest room door had turned off. It was rare that he fantasized about any particular person, but tonight, he couldn't help it. 

The man's kiss was delicious. His lips still stung with want even over an hour later. Sam had never known a kiss that had such gentle power, such promise. Even if somehow he had completely misunderstood what Castiel intended to happen next, Sam had that kiss. It was his forever, and he could think of it anytime he wanted. No matter what came next, he had shared a meal with a wonderful man, had been some help to him, and he had been rewarded with a sweet kiss that had slotted their lips together so perfectly...

Sam felt his body shiver with ecstatic release, and he lay back to ride out the pleasure. It was several minutes of peaceful euphoria before he chose to stand and step into his large shower. 

The freezing rain continued pounding the windows, and he smiled happily, knowing Castiel was safe and warm inside.


	8. Family Ends in Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence, etc.

Dreams haunted Castiel's sleep. He saw Anya, of course, not as he had last seen her, broken and frightened yet defiant to the end. No, this was smiling Anya. This was funny Anya. This was his friend.

These dreams were even more upsetting.

His dreams flowed as memories, the way they did when he was too exhausted to create his new nightmares. So he saw it again.

Yuriel, Castiel's own brother, had put a blade right through her heart when she refused to do as she was told...to give up Castiel himself.

He had not seen it in person, of course. The video had been quite enough to destroy him from the inside. There had been no need to keep the copy they had sent. It replayed in his mind in great, vivid detail every few hours without fail.

Anya had been a fierce little thing, but little was hardly a strong enough word when one saw her standing next to Yuriel, her hands bound behind her back at a painful angle, tied to a thick wooden post in who knew what creepy space Yuriel had acquired for his purpose.

When the camera began recording Anya's last moments, it was abrupt, with no warning. Immediately, Castiel could see the cuts and bruises all over her face, the way one eye wouldn't open, but the other glared in insolence at her captor. Then, without pretext, Yuriel's hand was smashing into her face again.

"Where is he?" the man had shrieked in his deadly deep voice, the only thing he and Castiel seemed to share as brothers. The Russian rang in Castiel's ears. There was no wondering who he was asking about.

Anya's split and bleeding lip trembled, and some cold, detached, dissociated part of Castiel's mind was impressed with the quality of the camera being used. But it was not Anya breaking into tears as anyone might have assumed. Not his Anya. That was coppery rage building in her mouth, and she spat it into Yuriel's face.

He wiped the blood off of him, with restraint Castiel would not have expected him capable of. That was when it was clear to Castiel, if there were any doubt before, that Yuriel was under the orders of Mikhail, not just Zachariah. If it only went as high as Zachariah, there would have been no such restraint. Anya would have been dead in an instant. Only Mikhail's determination to find Castiel could have stayed Yuriel's hand in that moment.

Instead, he had laughed. "You know, it didn't have to be this way." The Russian slid from his tongue in a way that made Castiel sick to his stomach. He could remember teaching Yuri to enunciate better when he mumbled as a child. "Speak clearly, brother, so people know it is important to listen."

There was nothing unclear about Yuriel's speech now.

"It could have been different," he was telling Anya. "Remember? Before you and Cas took off for London. It could have been you and me, Anya. We could be happy and rich, and-"

"And you would still be a killer, Yuri!" she screamed. "I never wanted that! I couldn't be that with you!"

It was all Anya's fault that Castiel's English had never developed much beyond what he needed in the lab and at conferences. Anya had been his constant companion and translator, and they had spoken only Russian in the apartment they had shared. She had done all the writing for their research, and he had happily let her. If he had known how he would need to get along without her one day, perhaps he would have studied more.

But how could he have known his brother would catch up with them?

Anya had never given him up. Even as Yuriel put the knife to her throat, she just stared at him.

"Tell me, little angel," the man had said in the recording. "Tell me where he is. Cas, he thinks he can run forever. He thinks he and his little angel Anya have the blessing of God. Look around you, angel! There is no God!"

"Maybe. Maybe not," she choked hoarsely. "But there's still me."

Yuriel slammed the knife into her chest like he was throwing a punch. "Not anymore, you bitch."

Watching the light burn out of Anya's eyes had killed something in Castiel. She had been like a sister to him...in a way Yuriel had not been a true brother in decades. He could remember quietly teasing as children that Yurie would marry Anya one day and have twelve babies, all girls, and...

And now, Yuriel had done the unthinkable, had destroyed that sacred friend they had loved since before they could remember. All for uncle Mikhail. For Dyadya.

All because Castiel would not do as he was told.

He had received the video digitally. He had run that night. Nothing was left for him but running. Mikhail had made that clear. The time to come back to hearth and home had passed. Now, his sins against the family had come due for judgement, and there was no appeal higher than Mikhail in that part of the old country. The video was not his summons to trial. It was his sentence to death.

All the executioner needed was his location.


	9. Time Remains

Castiel watched Sam's eyes widen when he emerged from the bedroom to find him reading on the couch. There was something between fear and excitement in the young man's eyes. Castiel enjoyed it. 

"Hey. Did you...you know...sleep well?"

He gave him a small smile. "Sam, that bed. Whole world should be made of that bed. Whole universe. All theories, they are wrong. All should be that bed. Is where I want to be at my last breath."

Sam's eyes were bright, and now they shone with hungry anticipation. "I'd like to take your breath away on it."

Castiel shivered imperceptibly, taking pleasure in his companion's glorious boldness. "Yes?"

"Yes."

"I will prefer here."

Sam put his book onto the table and sat straight up. "Then come here."

The urgency in the command was lovely. He took just one step. "You tell to me what you like, da? You tell to me how to help you." 

"I just want to touch you," Sam breathed. "That kiss...You ruined me in that kiss."

Castiel was not sure what   
that phrasing meant, but the tone and the look in Sam's eyes told him everything he needed to know. He smiled, and took another step. He liked this game. "Tell to me. Tell to me what Sam is needing."

"I need to..." Sam lowered his eyes then, and stared at trembling hands. "I need to know this is okay. That I'm not...taking advantage somehow..."

Castiel smirked in amusement. The man was delicious. "You are to take my advantage? Good. I give to you."

Sam smiled quietly. "I'm serious."

The drifter laughed. "You are too serious. I am not a child, Sam."

"No, I-I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean...I don't know what you've been through, and you won't tell me your story, so I don't...I wasn't even sure you like men."

"I like men."

Sam breathed shallowly through his nose and said nothing. 

Castiel was so fond of this young man. He wanted to teach him about the world, and yet to protect his innocence. He was an appetizing mixture of sweet and savory, and Castiel was beginning to feel a hunger of the type he had not known for a long time. "Sam, I tell to you part of story. I am to be dead soon. Is not disease. Is not injury. Is what he calls...debt payment."

Sam looked horrified. "You-you owe someone money? Cas-"

A bitter laugh spat out. "No. Different debt." He thought that was the right word for it. He owed Mikhail, and it was coming due. "No matter. No matter, but, Sam, I am to be dead soon. I say that only to say this. I am having what I want before time is finished. American pizza. Good bed. Good water pressured shower. And Sam. All I want is this."

Hazel eyes closed. Sam seemed to be making a decision. When he looked up again, there was a new ferocity in his gaze. "Then come here," he commanded again.

This time, Castiel did not hesitate. There was no time left to waste.


	10. Sobranie

A dark figure leaned on the brick wall of a homeless shelter, smoking a black clove cigarette. It was good, but not like his Sobranie Blacks back home. He had picked up the pack of Djarum Blacks at the airport in Munich. They did the job.

He watched the way the young man looked around them nervously. Yuriel was still awaiting the text from Zachariah letting him know if he was to kill this man once he had given him the information he needed.

"Marcus, you say." His English was poor, inexperience, but he knew enough.

"Yeah," the guy murmured.

"Marcus," he said, in his deep growl, "Clarence Strannik, you are certain is him?" He held the photograph of Castiel closer.

"Yeah. I told you, man. That's him."

"You see him go in man's car."

"Yeah. Old, classic black Impala. Belongs to a volunteer here. Sam Winchester. I told you all this. Now is there money or not?"

Yuriel felt his phone vibrate, and he glanced at it. Then he smiled.

_Can't let him tip off your brother that you're near._

Marcus shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Man, come on. It's cold, and I got a long night, you know?"

"No," Yuriel corrected. "You do not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The brand of cigs is called Sobranie, which means Collection.


	11. Practice

There was a strange comfort in Sam's home. It was warm in a way Castiel could not define, but could happily appreciate. When he let his fingers card through the silken sable hair, he wondered if perhaps this was what heaven would be. Warm, clean, and smelling of sweet Sam Winchester. 

"You're putting me to sleep," Sam breathed. 

Castiel turned his eyes to meet Sam's. "Is wrong to sleep? I am wrong my whole life!" he teased. 

Sam giggled and stretched. 

The older man liked that Sam enjoyed his quirky sense of humor. Only Anya had ever really gotten him. Sam seemed delighted every time he spoke. It was nice. 

"Cas? You felt incredible. You know?" Sam rolled them on the bed so that he was looking down at his lover instead. "I don't think I've ever felt so...in tune with somebody before."

Castiel smirked. "I make you to forget Paul, yes?"

"Who?"

He laughed. 

Sam was doing something quite fascinating now, and Castiel wasn't sure what to make of it. He was sliding his body alongside Castiel's, then pulling it away, and edging nearer to begin again. It took a while before Castiel realized what was going on. 

"Sam, stay. I want for you to stay." He did not know the English words for cuddle, but it was plainly what the large young man wanted desperately. So he wrapped his arms around his lover and pulled him closer. 

Sam seemed grateful for the touch. "I didn't know if...Maybe you wanted me to go, and..."

"Stay," he said again. "You want to stay. I want to stay. Stop your movement. You stay."

He was getting tired again, and he could feel his English failing him. One day, wouldn't it be nice to have the use of his legendary intelligence? 

Sam didn't seem to mind. Instead, he sighed contentedly, and curled into Castiel. He was a strong man, stronger than Castiel had assumed, considering the way the young man spent his time with his eyes lowered and his face slightly pink. And he had been an amazing lover. Castiel was not surprised at all to find that Sam was a generous partner. He had seen to Castiel's needs and desires tirelessly before allowing Castiel to take care of him, then had immediately returned to please Castiel again. Now they were both sated and wrapped in one another's limbs, and he wished he never had to leave this nest of warmth and peace. 

But he had to. It wasn't safe for Sam. 

The thought forced his eyes open. "Sam, I leave today."

He heard a heavy, sad sigh, and it made him smile and cringe at the same time. 

"You know this."

"I know," Sam murmured. "I wish you didn't have to. Where will you go? And...and, Cas, why? I mean, you could stay." The ache in the man's voice was painful to hear. "Until you found something better. Just...stay."

Castiel turned to face him, reaching up to touch his face gently. "There is no finding better, Sam. You are best. You are beautiful. I am not to leave because I find better. I am to leave because you are best. Is not...safe for you. You have innocence. I have debt. Is good that I go."

Sam shook his head. "I don't understand. If someone is looking for you, you can stay here. It's safe here!"

His smile was bitter. "Is safe nowhere, Sam." 

Kind, worried, gentle eyes peered out from the rain of hair. Sam was so sweet, so innocent. He needed to protect him. Castiel knew better than to form friendships. Yuriel had destroyed his last friend, and Anya had hardly been naïve about what his family did to people who owed them. Sam had no idea. Sam was too good. In another life, perhaps he could have had Sam. But this one was too dangerous for a good man. 

Castiel reached up to kiss Sam's lips. "I came to here years ago to live in science. Is all I want. I have days, in rain and cold, only in library. Only to study. I read the English well enough, and am finding books with the Russian too."

"You spend your days in the library, reading science journals and books."

He nodded. He liked the way Sam listened so well, and clarified what he heard. Castiel stored away all of Sam's summaries so that he would know how to say things properly the next time. If only he could spend a month with this patient man. His English would be polished in no time. He'd had more practice the past week than he'd had in all the time he'd been running. And before that, Anya had enabled his quiet nature, and spoke and translated for him. It was lonely now, and hard to work up the energy to practice when he was always just putting one foot in front of the other. 

But with Sam, it wasn't a chore; it was a challenge. He wanted to spend days in bed, practicing English and maybe even discussing his field with Sam. Maybe he could never go back to a lab, since Zachariah would find him within days at any lab with the equipment he would require. But he could still study, and perhaps Sam would show the same wide-eyed interest in his studies as he did everything else...

What was he even thinking about right now? 

Castiel stood out of the bed abruptly. "I must go."

Sam looked startled. "Right now?"

He nodded. "I cannot...Sam, I want to stay. So...I must go. Now. Before..." Before he couldn't make himself leave Sam's warmth. Before he couldn't make himself step back into the cold. 

The large man frowned, but nodded. "You shower. Take whatever you need. Anything. And I'll fix some food for you to..." Emotion was choking his voice, and Sam gave up, and turned away. He put his clothes on without another word. 

Poor Sam. Always letting the men in his life use him, take from him, and then walk away. It made Castiel feel horrible. But he couldn't stay. That wasn't right. He simply should never have befriended the man in the first place. 

***

Sam's head was pounding. He knew part of it was lack of sleep. But part of it, too, was his brain slamming out the words "I told you so!" and directing them at his already weary heart. 

He rummaged through the kitchen, looking for things to pack for Castiel. 

He had helped Paul pack too. 

This was different. Castiel was a drifter; of course he was moving on. Sam didn't actually know anything about him. He didn't even know the man's real last name. So why should this be painful?

His phone buzzed, and he glanced at it. A small smile played at his lips. "Hey, man. How do you always seem to know when I'm getting my heart torn out?"

"Paul again?" Dean growled. 

He laughed sadly. "Paul is yesterday's news, dude. Literally. But it's no big deal. It's just like you got your Sammy senses tingling from across the world."

"You been in my head all day. What's going on?"

His hands continued their work, but his mind wandered. "I'm good, Dean. What's going on with you and your buddies?"

"Just waiting on orders. There's a civilian thing going down soon, and they're calling us in for it."

"I even get to know what country you're in?"

"Eh, they all look the same after a while. This one's more snow than sand."

It was Dean's way of telling him his location was classified. Sam closed his eyes. "Be careful, okay?"

"Milk run, Sammy. I promise."

He sighed. "Some of your milk runs sound like you're getting your cows straight out of hell."

Dean's voice was quiet. "Some days it feels like it. But what we're doing...It's helping people, Sam. I mustered up to go to war, but what they got me and the guys doing now...It's good work, Sam. In a lot of cases, it's preventing wars. You know? And that ain't just the company line. What we do...The locals are glad we're there. It's not like my first tour, where we didn't want to be there, and nobody wanted us in their business. It's keeping innocent people safe, letting them live their lives, send their kids to school without wondering if they're coming home. It's good work. You should know that. You'd...you'd be real proud. Dad would be proud."

Sam blinked against tears, and nodded. "I am proud of you, man. And Dad was too. No clue what he'd think of me, but he'd be real proud of you."

"Hang on, man." Dean's voice became muffled, but it cleared up just before he addressed Sam again. "Spasibo, Boris. Sorry, dude. I'm back. The translator, freaking Boris Crowley. Pain in my ass."

"Did...did you say spasibo? That's thank you."

"Hey, look at you, Sammy! You been practicing!"

"Are you in Russia?"

"We're never in Russia, dude. And quit asking."

"Sorry. It's just...Anyway, it doesn't matter. You leaving tonight?"

"Probably. I'll call you the minute we're clear."

"No matter what time it is, right?"

"Promise. Gotta go. Cole's waving us in. Stop letting guys control whether or not you're happy, Sam. Seriously. You're smarter than that, and I raised you better."

"Good night, jerk."

"'Night, bitch."

Sam sighed again as he listened to the call disconnect. "Please be careful, big brother. You're all I got."

He could hear the shower running in the next room. He closed his eyes and imagined himself joining Castiel in the warm water, and telling him his worries, and letting him soothe them. It was what real partners did for one another. He was sure of it. He had never had that. But it seemed like something that would make waiting out Dean's operations easier. It would make life easier. 

Sam looked up when a knock hit the door.


	12. Disarming Personalities

A knock on Sam's door at all was out of place. A knock before dawn was peculiar. Dean arrived at all hours of the day or night when he was back in the States, but he clearly wasn't, and he had a key. The only other person he could imagine knocking at this hour was...

"Paul," Sam breathed.

His poor heart began pounding. This was unfair. Completely unfair. Castiel was leaving. Dean was heading for a dangerous classified mission. And now Paul was climbing into his own liquor after bar hours again, and looking for Sam's company. It happened periodically, and Sam hated himself after, but it was impossible to say no to the man when he was so lonely himself. But now? Right now? It just wasn't fair.

If he had not been immediately convinced that the person behind the door was a drunken ex-lover, he might have thought to look out the peep hole before opening. But his mind was racing with a hundred things he should say to get Paul to leave, but yet get him home safely at the same time. So he yanked the door open without bothering to glance.

A tall, dark man stepped into the doorway.

Sam's sharp eyes caught the subtle movement at the floor, and it sent instant alarms off in his head.

John used to do that.

Before the man had even spoken, Sam had taken note of the way the booted right foot had moved to rest at the door jamb, which would prevent it from closing again.

John used to do that. And there was no better hitman than John Winchester.

Sam's rusty training from so many years ago slammed into him, John's quiet, cold voice in his head, Dean's firm, rapid-fire commands.

_Look at the way he's standing, Sam. He's trusting his strength._

_Not fast. But solid._

_You've got no reach advantage like you usually do, son. But he's used to having that too._

_Smell that clove on him. It's masking another scent, but you can smell it anyway. Blood. And look at how he's holding his hand at his side like that. That's where his weapon is. Knife or gun, it's in there._

_Baton, maybe._

_It's a gun. Gotta be. See how his fingers are positioned._

_Right-handed._

_Scar over his eye. Experienced hand-to-hand fighter._

_Look at those eyes. He's smiling, but he's looking behind you._

_It's not you he's here for, little brother._

_Castiel._

_This is what Cas is running from, Sammy._

Sam's eyes narrowed dangerously.

The man's smile slipped at the hostility in Sam's glare. "Moy starshiy brat nashel storozhevuyu sobaku," he snarled, and his bulk moved through the door with no pretense about his intentions.

Sam moved with a speed and grace he had not utilized for a very long time, and when the large man pulsed forward, Sam pivoted to the side and grabbed the man to force his weight off-balance. The man heaved a grunt, but took very little time to recover. Sam threw his fist into his jaw before he could stand tall again, then a second time, until his opponent finally hit his hands and knees. A slur of Russian poured out of the man's mouth along with a spray of blood and spit. Sam slammed his knee up into his abdomen as hard as he could.

Now the gun was out, and Sam hesitated just a fraction of a second. The man was prone on the ground. One hand braced himself, and the other held a gun aimed at Sam's chest.

_The gun, Sam._

_Sammy, you gotta be faster. He's happy to kill you. You gotta be faster._

_Forward, Sam._

_He's expecting you to go backward._

_Lunge. Now._

With his heart in his throat, Sam threw his own hulking weight directly onto the man. When the gun went off, it missed him by a good three feet, and then it crashed to the floor and skittered across the room. Sam heard a sickening crack as he slung the man's arm behind his back and threw him facedown on the floor. The Russian screamed in fury and pain, and Sam knew the right arm was no longer a factor in the fight.

_That's right, Sam. But don't assume he's done. I wouldn't be._

_What would Dad do next, Sammy? Job gone south, weapon out of reach, arm broke._

_Think, son._

_Dad would never only have one._

Sam shifted himself to the right just before the knife could pierce him in the side. His weight had held the Russian down, but it had not prevented the man from stabbing up at him from the ground. Instead of shoving the serrated knife through Sam's belly, there was a superficial stick in his side.

_That's my boy. Get that knife away from him._

_No. Disable him, son. You're in a position to snap his neck. Do that, and you won't have to worry about disarming him._

_Sammy?_

Dean's voice in his head stopped him. He looked frantically at where his hands were, one at the back of the man's skull, the other reaching for the side of his face. One sharp, strong movement was all it would take. The pain from the wound did not even register in his mind. But Dean's voice did.

_Sammy, disarm._

_I gave you an order! Disable! Snap his damn neck, Sam!_

_Sammy? You're not Dad. Disarm, little brother._

No more than a second passed but Sam could feel the man struggling beneath him, and he swung around to grab hold of his wrist with his left hand, and sent a crushing blow from his right palm into it. There was a terrible shatter of bone, and the knife fell useless to the floor. Sam placed his knee into the man's back, and leaned his weight onto his right hand, which was now between the Russian's shoulder blades. With his left palm, he gave one last strike to his opponent's face, which was pressed into the floor, and the man went still below him.

He waited just a moment to be sure, then rolled off the man, and collected the weapons in his own hands. Then he leaned against the wall and slid down to sit, heaving angrily.

It took nearly a full minute before he realized there was a pair of bare toes sticking out of long pants in his line of vision. He followed them up to find Castiel staring down at the scene silently.

Their eyes locked, and they spoke at the same time.

"Cas, I can explain!"

"Sam, I explain to you!"

They stared at one another for a long moment, then they sighed together.

"I think we should tell our stories now."

Castiel nodded. "Da."


	13. Family Business

Sam took manacles from the brute's own pockets and used them to secure his hands behind his back. He doubted it was necessary, considering the state he was in, but he knew his father could never have been assumed to be out of the game under any circumstances.

Castiel stared down at the man coldly. "Is Yuriel. My brother."

Sam's stomach lurched. "What? Your brother!"

"My brother," Castiel sighed. "I am older. I try, but I do not teach him well. Please, what is word...Uncle turns him to be bad, criminal."

"Corrupts," Sam breathed. "Your uncle corrupted him."

"Yes, thank you. Mikhail corrupts every man he touch. Corrupts or kills. Some days, both."

Sam laughed uneasily. "What are we talking about? Like, the Russian mafia?"

Castiel was silent.

Hazel eyes grew wide. "Wait. Are we talking about the Russian mafia? Jesus, Cas!"

A sad, weary smile played at Castiel's lips. "I tell to you not to be asking. You don't listen."

Sam swore softly.

"I tell to Mikhail, I want to go to university. I want to be learning physics. He tell to me, yes, Castiel. Go. But remember I belong to him. He is to only call, and I am return to him. He tell to me, play at science, Castiel. Be happy. But only I can do this until family is needing me. Then I am return to him."

"You didn't go back when he called."

He sighed. "Was simple job. Deliver message. I am already in New York, no? Is simple. Castiel, you take hand of man's son, you deliver to man. Simple."

Sam was beginning to feel sick. "His...actual hand?"

"Of course. Make effective message, no?"

"No. I mean, yes. Obviously."

Castiel smiled bitterly. "I know how to do this. I am student of Uncle, same as Yuri. Is family business."

Sam sighed. At least that part, he could understand.

"I am to find son; I am to send message, to tell to father, cheat Mikhail is not so smart, yes? Is no matter, Castiel, he tell to me. You do one thing, then you are going back to play at science. Simple. But I cannot. I tell to Anya, my friend Anya, I tell to her I must go. Run or kill or die. Is only three things to do. Kill, I cannot. Even just take boy's hand, I cannot. Die?" Castiel shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Nie, spasibo. Is not my choosing. Run is not so smart, but is better. Is better, yes? Not for Anya."

Sam winced.

"Mu'dak," Castiel spat at the man lying unconscious on the floor. Then his anger turned to sorrow, and Sam could feel the grief in his friend's words. "My brother. How we come to here? How he can...Etot suka pytali moyego druga. How he can kill my Anya? Eto pizdets. He love my Anya! I love him! Is my brother, Sam! Is here for to kill me! Iisus. Iisus, pomogi mne."

"Cas, I can't understand-"

"He pray to God, to Jesus," a deep voice thick with pain and loathing growled below them. "Instead, moy brat Castiel should pray to Mikhail for to save."

"Vy khulit', brat. Iisus-"

The large man laughed in a way that made Sam shiver. "God! You never have even met the Man!" he screamed in a rage.

The physicist's eyes grew cold. "Never will I."

Sam looked up just in time to see Castiel raise a pistol to the Russian's head. "Whoa! Wait! Cas, wait! Please!"

The icy fury in the man's blue eyes was terrifying. But he did not fire. "Sam," he said quietly, "he kill Anya. For to find me, he kill Anya."

"Suka," Yuriel snarled.

The hammer pulled back on the firearm.

Sam rushed forward with his argument. "Wait. Cas, please wait. He's here to kill you, right? And if he doesn't let your uncle know you're dead...he'll just send someone else, right?"

"Okhrannik sobaka umnyy."

"Zatknis'!" Castiel barked.

"English, Cas!" Sam snapped back.

"Vozmozhno, on ne tak umen. Gryaznyye obez'yana."

"Sam, I want to kill him."

"No! Cas. You know I'm right."

Castiel controlled his breathing with great effort. But as he lowered his weapon, he broke down into tears. "Yuri, it is to be easy for you? Kill me is easy? I watch that you kill Anya, but still I have heartbreak for you!"

"Ty slab." The pain in the man's voice was becoming thicker, and his eyes struggled to remain open in defiance.

"No. No, Yuri. Is not because I am being weak. Is because I remember time that you were. Little child Yuri. Afraid of world. Afraid of Uncle. I see him still."

Yuriel glowered another moment, then his eyes rolled back, and he lost his battle with consciousness at last.

Sam took a breath. "Castiel, I'm so sorry. Really."

The man smiled dimly, and placed his gun on the table. "Sam, do you know what is the book I carry?"

He shook his head in surprise. It seemed hardly relevant now.

"Is Dostoevsky. Two story. One book. Brothers Karamazov. And Crime and Punishment. You know?"

"One but not the other," Sam responded quietly.

"Yes. Is no matter. I only say, is for to remember. First page. Little Yuri, five or less, he is writing with crayon, over letters. I am angry. I tell to him, no, Yuri! Book is for respect! He tell to me, Castiel, I want to be for your respect. Is why I study letters. I make for you proud, Castiel." Tears slid down his cheeks. "I am fail to him. Book is for to remember. I carry everywhere. My brother. My crime. My punishment."

"Cas, you can't blame yourself that your brother..." He stopped and sighed. Wouldn't Dean have felt responsible if Sam had become a man who could have snapped a man's neck without remorse? Nothing anyone else said would have kept Dean from feeling as though he had failed to teach his brother.

Castiel smiled weakly. "Sam, you should tell to me your story. And then we are choosing what to do for my brother."

He gave another sigh.

"Sam? My brother is best student to my uncle. But you? You...what is word? You handle him. How is so?"

"Yeah. Okay," he said quietly. "But let's keep our ears open. I can't believe nobody heard that gun go off. Just like the city. Gunshots are somebody else's problem. Everyone assumes somebody else called the police." He shook his head.

"Sam?" Castiel pressed.

"Yeah, I...I never told the story before. Give me a minute." He took a deep breath, and dove in. "Cas, your uncle is some kind of crime boss."

"Big boss."

That didn't help Sam feel better about this situation. "Yeah? Okay. Well, my father wasn't exactly a white hat either."

"White hat. You...for western show. White hat is hero." In spite of the situation, Castiel smiled proudly. "I watch many! Make Anya crazy. I like television!"

Something about Castiel's return to an amiable scientist with broken English, who liked American pizza and movies, made everything seem lighter. Sam nodded. "Yeah, Cas. The good guys wear the white hats. And my dad...He wasn't one. I mean...It was complicated. I loved him. God, Dean and I worshipped him. But he never hid what he did from us."

"He did what?"

Sam shrugged. "He did what Yuri does. They called him The Hunter. It started with my grandfather, my mom's dad. He and my cousins, they...It doesn't matter. The point is, my dad loved my mom, and my grandfather, Samuel, he didn't like my dad. So he gave him one chance. A job. It wasn't meant to be a chance at all. Dad knew Samuel expected him to get himself killed doing this job. But he did it anyway. I don't know if my mom ever knew."

"What is job?"

He took a breath. "To kill a man. A rival. Turns out, there's no better hunter than John Winchester. And even after Samuel died, and most of my cousins too, and my mom, anyone who needed a job done knew to call my dad. Paid well. We moved around a lot. And...and he trained us. Me and my brother. To do what he did. The only acceptable paths were the military or the family business. So my brother is in the military. And me...I went to school. And my dad died without ever forgiving me."

Castiel stared down at his brother and sighed heavily. "Sam? At time this is finished? We find liquor store. And we drink it."

Sam nodded. "Deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some VERY loose (and more mild) translations, since I threw a lot in this one:
> 
> When Cas starts to fall apart, he calls Yuriel an asshole, then says that this bitch tortured his friend. Then he talks about how messed up things have gotten, and asks for Jesus to help him. 
> 
> When Yuriel translates for Sam and suggests Cas pray to Mikhail as his savior instead, Cas thinks that's blasphemous. 
> 
> Yuriel calls Anya a bitch, and Sam has to stop Cas from firing, Yuriel-who called Sam his brother's guard dog in the last chapter-says that this guard dog is pretty smart, and Cas tells him to shut up. When Sam says he needs them to speak in English, Yuriel backtracks about how smart Sam is and calls him sort of a filthy monkey (Mud monkey?).


	14. Coincidence

Castiel sighed down at his brother. His heart and his head were completely at odds with one another, which was made even worse when they each switched sides. Killing Yuriel was unthinkable...But he had tortured and killed Anya! Letting him live was not an option. He was determined to kill Castiel. And even if he didn't? When Mikhail learned Yuriel had not done it, he would send Zachariah to kill them both. "Ili d'yavol," he breathed aloud.

Sam looked up. "What?"

He locked his eyes with Sam's. "My uncle. He is to be sending another for to kill me. Might be cousin Zachariah. Might be what he calls D'yavol."

"Is that what it sounds like?" Sam cringed.

"Sound is like Devil, no? Is brother to Mikhail. Only is speaking to Mikhail for job to do."

Sam was frowning down at Yuriel. "What's that mean?"

"D'yavol, he hate Mikhail. But he do good work." Castiel shrugged. "Is business."

He shook his head. "You're saying Mikhail and his brother, who they call the freaking Devil, don't actually like each other, but they work together when Mikhail needs someone killed? What the hell was Sunday dinner like at your place?"

Castiel raised an eyebrow, and shrugged again. "Tetka Naomi is very good cook," he responded. "Your father and grandfather too. How is Sunday for you at dinner?"

The man nodded. "Point taken. So? What do we do with him?"

The two of them looked down at the unconscious, broken Russian on the ground, then at each other and sighed.

***

Boris Crowley was a mean son of a bitch, but hell if he wasn't useful. The guy was more than just a translator. He was essential to the op.

Dean held his sidearm steady on his target and awaited Cole's word from their superiors. The operation had gone smoothly. Kremenchuk was a city in quiet distress, busy going about its business while biting its collective nails and waiting for disaster to strike. The pro-Russian unrest, and personal drama, had taken its mayor back in 2014, by way of a bullet, and Dean didn't know if no one else wanted the trouble or what, but there hadn't been a mayor there since. Most of the people in Kremenchuk were good, hardworking people. But there was a growing underworld presence which had crept out of Russia and into the Ukrainian industrial city.

That was where Dean came in. He glanced at Boris Crowley. "He telling us anything I need to know?"

Crowley shrugged. "How much do you need to know about your mother's relations with various hoofed animals?"

Dean's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. "You're right. Don't tell me. I'd hate for my finger to slip."

"Pity," Crowley responded. "He's quite creative with his threats."

Benny moved silently to his side and spoke in his low Louisiana drawl. "Cole's got our orders."

Dean grinned wickedly. "And?"

The big man shrugged. "Seems he lunged for a weapon in an attempt to escape."

Dean fired his weapon, and watched the prisoner slump to the ground with a thud. "That happens to me a lot," he murmured absently.

"You should work on your prisoner restraint techniques. Maybe you outta take my class again." Benny set to work on the body.

Beside him, Dean caught Crowley smirking. "You like your job entirely too much, Boris."

"No crime in that, is there?"

"Technically?" Benny huffed over his shoulder.

Dean snorted. None of them needed to be reminded that what they were doing now was illegal. But they were each chosen for this team for a reason. Each was the best at what he did. And none among them was overly burdened by living in moral grays.

"Clean kill," Benny muttered.

It made Dean smile. "See? You know you love working with me. I look out for you."

"Guy's going to be freaking heavy."

Crowley turned to Dean then. "Now that Zachariah is no longer with us, and good riddance," he said in his strange mix of Russian and Scottish accents, "what happens with the others?"

Cole wandered toward them, placing his Sat phone in its holster. "They're transporting the Devil to a cage someplace in Kiev. I doubt he'll ever see daylight again."

Dean saw the sneer on Crowley's face. "And Mikhail?"

"He's going to have a Hunter's accident like Zachariah here did."

Dean nodded, and moved into the next room to finish the job. The Russian crime lord spat threats at him, but he silenced him quickly. Benny would take care of the rest, with Cole and the locals. Dean's work was done. He nodded at the Ukrainian officer on his way back to the transport. The relief on the man's face was apparent. Mikhail and his family had terrorized this city long enough. Dean suspected that some on the local force were in favor of rule by the Russian government, but that wasn't the point. No one wanted the mafia in charge. When they had learned the bosses were all meeting in person there, they had done what no one wanted to do; they had called the Americans.

Dean went by his father's moniker. They called him The Hunter whenever it wasn't safe to call him Lieutenant Winchester. In Germany, he was Jäger. Here in Kremenchuk, they called him Myslyvetsʹ. And Crowley called him Rytsar' Ada, which he said meant the same thing in Russian. He carried on John's legacy, used the training his father had given him, but he wasn't doing it for money and power. The money was good, but Dean never really used it. He had Sam invest it for him. He didn't expect to live to retirement anyway. Dean used his skill set and ruthlessness to slay the monsters of the world, to protect innocent lives.

There was something in the Winchester blood that made them colder than other people. Dean had felt it even as a child. He had looked in the mirror and hated what he had seen. He had done his best to cultivate compassion in Sam instead of cruelty, and to sculpt that icy blood into something strong but not dark. He was proud of how good a man his brother was. But Dean himself could feel the shiver inside him at all times, the same thing that had made his father so good at what he did. So he sought out a way to use it that might do some good.

Dean was a hunter. The best he could do was not allow himself to become a stone cold killer instead.

***

"I demand translator!" the Devil was bellowing.

"You're looking at him." The dark figure entered the room, silent as a serpent.

The Devil's eyes narrowed. "Boris Crowley," he snarled.

The translator put his hands in his pockets and stood in obvious satisfaction. "Fancy meeting you here," he crowed.

"You speak in Russian or not at all," the other man hissed in their native tongue.

Crowley shrugged and slipped comfortably back into that vernacular. "Did you just feel like chatting, then?"

"This is you. This whole thing was all you!"

He might have smiled, but the loathing in his eyes was too prominent a feature to notice. "And isn't that a bitch?"

The Devil roared at him in fury. "You've killed my brother!"

Crowley lifted an eyebrow. "I saved you the trouble."

"I should have killed you twenty years back!"

"Oh, definitely," Crowley agreed. "Keep your friends close and your enemies from breathing."

"My nephews will find you! They will-"

He reached up to rub at the back of his neck. "You mean Castiel and Yuriel? Your princes apparent? I've seen to that as well. At least one of them is dead by now. Possibly both, though my money is on Castiel having lived to fail another day. I took some precautions in that regard, since he may yet prove useful. Yuriel, on the other hand, is a loyalist who can't be allowed to live. If Castiel and his friend don't take care of him, I have someone waiting in the wings to do so. Tidy as a ballet in Moscow, and just as many dead bodies."

"What precautions?" the Devil asked suspiciously.

Crowley lowered himself to sit on his heels beside where the prisoner was tied. "You see, the man who killed your cousin Zachariah and then your brother Mikhail? He's got a brother too. Just as big and well-trained as him, from what I gather. But he's a bit of a soft touch. Has a weakness for poor, oppressed people like your nephew Castiel."

The Devil snarled at him. "Poor? Oppressed? You're joking!"

Crowley nodded in false sympathy. "I'm afraid it's true. The mighty has fallen, and hard. When Mikhail sent him on the run, it was all my friend could do to keep up with him. Slippery thing, isn't he?"

"What did you do to Castiel?" The voice was becoming shrill.

"I simply had my Italian friend, a lovely bitch by the name of Raphaela, suggest to him a particular place where he could rest along his journey. When The Hunter told us all about Sam's obsession with community service, I knew exactly where to send Castiel. And for over a week, Raphaela's people have been in Ukraine, happily hacking away at Zachariah's communications with Yuriel. You'll be embarrassed to know one of my contacts actually had to point Yuriel in the right direction. Poor tracker, that man. Of course, he killed the informant, but I expected that. He had fulfilled his obligations to me anyway."

"You sent Castiel to this Sam. Then you sent Yuriel to Castiel. You brought in the Americans to kill Mikhail-"

He gave a quiet laugh. "Oh. No, it's far better than all that. I barely had to do a thing. The Ukrainians were weary of your tightening control in the area, and when I found out you had plans to meet here, I simply ensured I would be the translator on the American team to take you out. Mikhail sent Castiel running. I pointed him in a particular direction. Zachariah sent Yuriel, and I did the same with him. And I suspect that between Castiel's training and Sam's, Yuriel is no longer a factor. Or Castiel isn't. Or both. I don't care much either way. I'll deal with the brats if they try to cross back into Russia again."

"You have brought chaos!" the Devil spat.

"No. I've brought a new era. I bring more efficient, less petty leadership to an obsolete organization left over from Soviet times. And there's a bit of poetry to it, I think. I found a set of brothers whose specialties are, respectively, saving people and hunting things, and with them, I took out your entire family business." Crowley smiled at him, and turned toward the door. "Enjoy your cage, D'yavol."


	15. Antonovich

The woman in the shadows watched with interest as Castiel Derzkiy and the tall man serving as his body guard moved Yuriel Derzkiy to the stairs of the Catholic church. The tall man waited as the elder Derzkiy spoke to his unconscious brother in hushed tones, and put his hand on his face for a moment. Then, when Castiel stood, the tall man made a sharp, forceful motion, and smashed through the church door's bolted lock. 

Raphaela nodded to herself. Interesting. So they were making it seem as though Yuriel had been trying to break into a church. Clearly the police were on their way. She would report this to Crowley, and let him deal with it. She wasn't going to stick her neck out just to clean up Crowley's loose ends. Her business with him was complete. She had never liked him anyway. It had been mutually beneficial to work together for a time, but Raphaela had her own business to get on with. 

Good riddance to the Derzkiy family, and good luck to Boris Crowley. Raphaela was long overdue for a flight home to Sicily. 

***

Sam had joined the volunteer team at the shelter a long time ago. He had seen staff come and go. The most recent hire, Marcus, was quiet but seemed nice enough. There was always a lot of staff turnover in a place like that. It was hard work, and often very frustrating. Volunteers generally eased that burden, but the volunteers themselves could be a headache of a different sort. Some of them needed too much handholding, some tried to take on too much responsibility too soon, and burnout among both staff and volunteers was a struggle, and new people had to be trained all the time. 

It was no wonder everyone loved Sam. He was independent and capable, but he did not try to make administrative decisions when the staff weren't there. He only needed to be shown something once. He was good with a screwdriver and with a computer, and he could talk to guests and other volunteers with respect and kindness. He didn't like to talk about himself, but he always listened to anyone else who wanted to speak. On the other hand, silences with Sam were not awkward, and he never put pressure on shy volunteers and anxious guests who would rather not engage in conversation. And a simple thanks meant the world to him. 

Then there was his own business. He believed strongly in what they offered organizations, a safe, easy and constructive way to collaborate and share resources, information, ideas and best practices among agencies. 

But supervising a staff of dozens, who supervised an even larger team, was making him miserable. He didn't like it, and he wasn't good at it. He had never trained for it. 

He had trained for this. 

"Sam, this is...risk."

The younger man nodded. "Yeah. But I think it's the best option we have."

"If they deport..."

"He goes back to Russia, deported, extradited, whatever, what happens to him?"

Castiel sighed. "Prison. If lucky. Mikhail if not."

"I never heard any good things about Russian prisons."

The weary blue eyes looked back at him. "You hear many good things about Mikhail, yes?"

Sam shrugged. "It's up to you. We can still turn back."

Castiel stared out as if he could still see the scene before them. "I try to save him."

It was breaking Sam's heart. "I know you did, Cas. But he isn't the kid you remember. He's..."

"Monster," he finished for him. "There is no save for him now."

Sam was silent. 

"No. We do as you tell to me. Is best."

"And you'll be okay?"

Castiel gave him a sad smile. "Never I can be okay again. But is best."

Sam sighed and nodded. With a few keystrokes, Sam completed his task, and sat back. "There we go."

"Is all?"

"That's it. My software is very efficient. Every law enforcement agency in the country has an alert out for him as having impersonated an officer and threatened a priest. When he's found with my dad's old fake badge on him, outside a church, they'll arrest him, and it doesn't matter what else they find out, or what he says. They'll get him medical attention, and they'll press charges. He'll have a lot to answer for. By the time it's all sorted out, whether they prosecute or not, you'll have disappeared completely. New name, address, an American visa and passport, and everything else you'll need to start over. The only thing you'll still have are your diplomas and transcripts from your universities, in your new name. Castiel Derzkiy will be legally deceased, and Castiel Strannik will be gone."

"Sam?" Castiel murmured. "You can be going to prison too."

"I'll be fine. Look, the only thing left is for you to choose your name."

They sat in Sam's living room, sharing coffee as though they weren't committing countless felonies. Castiel looked up at him with a small smile. "Cas Winchester."

Sam sucked in a short, silent breath. He turned to stare at the man. "I don't...That's not...I mean..."

Castiel chuckled. "Is too soon for this joke, yes?"

"Yes," Sam breathed. Then his eyes widened. "No! I mean, no. I just...You'll need another name first. Then..." A slow grin began to take over his face. "Then I'll get to work on changing it to Winchester."

Castiel was smirking at him. "Cas Antonovich. Is great Russian scientist, Georgiy Antonovich Gamov, very important. Biophysics, nucleosynthesis, very important."

Sam's flushed face was cooling, and he gave a soft laugh. "Of course. Okay. Do I have it spelled right?"

"Yes, but...Only one ess. Cas. Castiel is having only one ess."

"Yeah, but only one ess is clearly short for something. If you're going to make it a first name, by itself, it should be Cass. Two."

The older man looked unconvinced. "Two ess is for woman in America, no?"

Sam burst into laughter. "Not necessarily! If I leave it with just one ess, people will think it's Casper."

Castiel wrinkled his nose in a look of disgust. 

"See? Casper is fine, but that's not you. So?"

"Two ess. I sign as C. Antonovich anyway."

Sam nodded with a smirk. "Okay. I'm not overly fond of Samuel either, and I go by Sam. I put it on all but the most official paperwork. You'll get used to it." 

"Use to..." Castiel nodded. "Ah. Yes. I am getting use to it. Because I use to be Castiel. I am getting use to be Cass. Is no matter."

He tapped away on his computer for nearly a twenty minutes before either of them spoke again. He flicked his gaze up now and then to see Castiel staring up at the ceiling, his head resting against the back of the couch, or his eyes squeezed tightly closed in a cringe. 

"Yuri is with police now," he whispered at last. 

Sam swallowed hard. "Yeah. They've updated his record. He's being taken to a hospital by local authorities, who have put him under arrest. I won't know much else until he's charged, and I can't risk continuing to hack into their system to watch."

"No. No, no, is no matter. You do too much, Sam. My brother, he is safe, can kill no more. Is best. Thank you. You don't let him to kill me. You don't let me to kill him. Thank you. I never have forgiveness for kill my brother. I never..." Castiel was getting tired again. Sam could hear his English becoming tangled somewhere between his worried mind and his lips. "I never have forgive for myself. You understand?"

He nodded. "I know, man. You never would have forgiven yourself for pulling the trigger. I get that. I don't know how screwed up things would have to be for me to turn a gun on my brother, but if I did...No matter what he'd done, I couldn't live with having hurt him."

"Yes," Castiel said hoarsely, with closed, watering eyes. "Yes, is that. He is hateful. But I love him."

Sam went silent again, continued his work, and by the time he spoke up, Castiel startled at his voice. "Hey, so...Oh. Sorry."

"Is no matter. I sleep soon."

"Yeah." Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "So...goodbye to Dr. Strannik. And rest in peace, Dr. Derzkiy. Welcome to the world, Cass Antonovich."

Cass smiled, and a wave of bittersweet relief seemed to pour over him. "Yes. Good. Is done?"

"Yes. And your new address...Until you find something else, I have you officially living...here."

A small chuckle slipped out of the man's mouth. "Good," he said again. "Because I need for to sleep. And...and you can not be call for Paul. I tell to you, Paul is not friend. I am being friend to Sam. I nearly get you to killed. But still...better friend than Paul."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, okay. My character judgement might be a little off, but yours is delusional. I've known you less than two days, and I've already beaten a man unconscious and broken his arm and wrist, and committed multiple felonies, along with making myself an enemy of a freaking Russian mob boss."

Cass shrugged and smiled ruefully. "Maybe, yes. But sex is very good." 

He laughed and leaned in to kiss his lips softly. "You're right. Totally worth it, Dr. Antonovich."


	16. Finally, A Home

The hardest part was the decision not to tell Dean. Cass had left it up to him, but he knew his inclination was to keep the secret between them. And it had the potential to put Dean in danger, both physically and professionally, if he knew what his kid brother had done. He hated keeping secrets from Dean, but it was the nature of their lives. Nearly everything Dean did was coded classified or higher. It was just as well that Sam stayed quiet about this too.

Cass learned weeks later that Mikhail and his subordinate Zachariah had been fatally shot while resisting arrest by Ukrainian authorities, and the uncle he called D'yavol was in a maximum security prison in Kiev. Evidently, not even the Russians were interested in fighting for extradition of a man like that. No one was willing to risk an escape during transport. D'yavol was apparently a very bad man, whose reputation for snapping necks and cashing checks was notorious and well-earned. Sam hoped he never made it out of that cage in Ukraine. The word had gotten out that Castiel was dead. Sam made sure it reached the right sources in Eastern Europe. There was no doubt his family-what was left of it-had heard.

For the first time in his life, Cass was suddenly a free man.

Sam loved the way the man gradually became more comfortable and healthier, mentally and physically. The transformation could be gauged by the growing frequency of smiles on his face, and Sam made it his unspoken goal to increase that rate week by week. The most rewarding smile came the day Sam came home with the news that he had promoted two impressive young techies and hired two promising wolfish executives to relieve much of his own responsibility at work.

"Between the team of Kevin and Charlie, and the executive management skills of Bartholomew and Cecily, I'm pretty much redundant. Once they're trained up, I'm going to have the four of them video conference with me for twenty minutes each morning, and send me a report each evening." It turned out Sam was not so bad at managing a team of four, especially from a distance. He didn't like Bart much, but he was very good at what he did, and Sam got a sick pleasure out of how he kept Mrs. Van Allen on her toes mercilessly. He also didn't much care for the predatory way Cecily grinned at Cass that time he had visited the office and sat quietly to wait for Sam. But she was incredibly efficient and hardworking. The Tran and Bradbury show was just a pleasure to watch. They cooperated beautifully. Sam sometimes came into the office for a few hours just to enjoy their energy and talk to them about their work, to sift through ideas until they had a plan for new ways to innovate. It was the best team he could imagine. Most days, he worked from home on his laptop, sitting out on his balcony in the fresh air, and visiting the shelter whenever he could.

Cass was entirely incapable of being idle. It wasn't long before he was back in a lab, teaching graduate students. Positions with Dr. Antonovich were competitive, especially considering that he was completely without ego when it came to the research which took place in his labs. He allowed the students themselves to write the papers on their findings, and to present them at conferences. Cass admitted to Sam that he could not be sure no one could figure out who he was, and even if they didn't, Anya had always been the writer and speaker between them. He was happy to give someone else that job.

Evenings were the best time Sam had ever known. He loved to sit back and listen to Cass tell stories, and teach him about his research. He shared the latest tales from the Tran and Bradbury show, which never failed to get a laugh out of Cass.

He learned accidentally that Cass adored small furry creatures. The first week in their new home, he had caught a rabbit who got stuck while exploring their garage. He brought it in to the kitchen to see if it would take some water, and Cass had made the most high-pitched noise Sam had heard from him.

"Krolik!"

It had startled Sam and the rabbit, but Cass had hurried over to take it from Sam's arms and hold it in his own. Miraculously, it refrained from biting him, and Cass had refused to let it go. Fortunately, it was young enough and greedy enough for treats and cuddles that it didn't mind its new habitat. Cass had immediately fallen in love with it, and demanded that it become part of the family.

"Tell to me what is good name?"

Sam had smirked ruefully at his brother, who was home on leave and laughing at the scene. "What do you think? Hasenpfeffer?"

Dean grinned and winked. "Yeah, man. Hasenpfeffer. It's kind of a traditional name for pet rabbits. An American thing, you get it?"

Blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Is sounding German to me."

Sam shrugged. "Cass, its a great name. But you call it what you want."

Cass held the rabbit up and looked it in the eyes. "Krolik, tell to me your name. Is Hasen..." He looked at Sam again.

"Hasenpfeffer."

"Ah. Krolik, is Hasenpfeffer? Yes? But too much, no? Sam, make it to be smaller."

He snorted. "Okay. We can call him Feffer for short."

"Feffer," Cass said happily. "Krolik, you are Feffer. Is okay for you, yes?" He looked so pleased that Sam couldn't help laughing. "I never have animal before!"

Sam glanced at his brother. "Put it on Dean. See if he's allergic."

"No, I'll just take allergy-Ack! Get that thing off me! Freaking rodent!"

"Feffer," Cass soothed, "is okay. Is uncle Dean. Uncle Dean is good man. Uncle Dean is just bitch before coffee, yes? Yes. Is okay. After coffee, you are liking to him..."

Dean scowled. "Glad his English is improving. I like knowing when someone's calling me a bitch."

Sam smiled, and set down the box of dishes he was sorting through. He watched the bewildered rabbit and the beloved man curl up on the couch across from where Dean was cleaning his personal weapons on the coffee table. His phone blinked with a text from Charlie inviting him to play an RPG with her and Kevin and some guy named Frank. He sighed happily. This was more content than he had felt in years, maybe ever. His strange little family was the best scenario he could imagine. Real friends who shared his professional vision and his nerdy interests. Dean safe at home for now. Cass fitting into his new life so well. And now they had a new little soul to shelter.

That night, with the rabbit safely packed into a hutch Cass had made Dean go out to buy, the two of them lay in each other's arms and shared a smile.

"Sam? I love you."

"I love you, Cass."

"We need two rabbit."

"Goodnight, Cass."

The older man chuckled and kissed his nose. "Goodnight, Sam. I watch over you."

Sam closed his eyes, and let himself dream.


End file.
